


Pet Bat

by linndechir



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Bondage, Bruises, Chains, Consent Play, M/M, Masochism, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: The Superman of Bruce's nightmares had never smiled. He was a wrathful god, punishing and devouring. Nothing his paranoia had cooked up had prepared him for this – for this smiling, gentle god who took so much pleasure in his power.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaesaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/gifts).



Bruce had found himself chained up more than once in his life, both volunatarily and not, so there was nothing unfamiliar about the sensation of chains digging into his wrists, their impact barely softened by the gauntlets, the combined weight of his body and his gear straining his shoulders. He knew what to do, knew a number of techniques to free himself from the chains, and more than enough ways to fight his captors even while he was still chained up. He didn't do any of those things.

He didn't move at all, kept his body as still as during a stake-out, and listened to the familiar sounds of the Cave, the low hum of the computers, the water running below, the occasional screech of a bat in the darker parts of the caves. And through those comforting sounds of home, the intruding splash of footsteps in the ankle-deep water on the ground.

Minutes had passed since he'd been tied up like this, like cattle strung up for slaughter, and since then those steps had been the only thing he'd heard from the man, no, from the alien who'd put him there. As if he hadn't quite settled yet on what exactly he was going to do with the Bat now that he had captured him. Most likely that was exactly the case.

The minutes stretched out while Bruce let himself feel the pull on his arms and shoulders, the ache in his wrists. Out of mere instinct he tested the chains at one point and found them all but unmovable – they'd been welded together rather than fastened with a lock. The moment he closed his eyes the steps vanished, and once he looked up again he found himself face to face with bright blue eyes. A strong hand moved in the corner of Bruce's vision, but he couldn't pull away from it far enough to avoid its touch on his cheek.

“I don't understand why you bothered hiding from me all this time,” Superman said, running his fingers along the line of the cowl. “I know who you are. I know where you go, when you run from me, what dark, dank hole you crawl back into. Every time you slipped away … it was because I let you.”

His fingers were warm, too warm, warmer than any human's. Bruce had barely realised that during their first fight, the armoured Suit like a wall between his body and the fury of a god, but now every touch seemed to burn his skin, like the flame of a candle getting dragged over his face.

“Where would you run that I couldn't follow, hm?” Clark's – no, Kal-El's voice was so … so soft. Gentle. Bruce had envisioned this a hundred times, in half-waking nightmares before Superman's death and after, in the dusk between sleep and waking, his cock hard and his heart racing in fear, and every time Superman had sounded furious. Barely concealed, barely controlled rage, the wrath of a god ready to thunder down on him.

This god spoke in the softest tones, calm and unbearably reasonable.

“Where could you hide that I wouldn't find you?” The fingers curled underneath the edge of the cowl. Bruce's heart cramped in his chest like an overstrained muscle after too much exertion. “Where, _Bruce_?”

It was wrong, hearing his name while he was wearing the Suit, as disconcerting as the steely gentleness in Kal-El's voice. He didn't rip the cowl off Bruce in one movement, no, he pulled it to pieces like it was made of the cheapest plastic, and only when Bruce's face was already mostly bared did he tear the remains off, snapping the wiring of the tazer that protected Bruce's identity if anyone ever managed to overpower him, yanking out the voice modulator in the same motion. He didn't even bother to look at the cowl before he dropped it; he reserved his disdainful sneer entirely for Bruce.

“What makes you think I was ever going to run from you?” Bruce growled. There had been a time before the modulator, and he fell back into the Bat's low register with ease. The look on Clark's – on Kal-El's face was almost delighted.

“You certainly won't now. I'm going to keep you here for as long as necessary, for as long as it takes for you to see reason.” The fingers were back on Bruce's cheek and that – that never happened in his nightmares. Superman's hands were pain and violence, unrivalled strength taking what it wanted. Not a tender caress. “I am not a cruel man, Bruce, but I can't have you interfere with my … rule.”

A second's hesitation on that last word, and the almost anxious look out of those blue eyes was all Clark – testing, asking, worrying whether he was doing this right, whether he was doing what Bruce wanted. Bruce felt half tempted to tell him he'd shove a whole chunk of kryptonite down his throat if he interrupted himself now, but the look on his face must have expressed that sentiment well enough that Clark caught himself in time.

“But you are,” Bruce said. “Cruel, if not a man. What else do you call bending the world to your will?”

“For its own good,” and this time Bruce had to look away to avoid the pained twitch on Clark's face. His strong hand moved to the back of Bruce's neck, squeezed firmly, and Bruce felt himself shiver at the same time as he heard Clark's breath catch in his throat. He hadn't expected him to be so _intimate_ about this. “Just as I am keeping you here for your own good. So I won't have to kill you. Hold still.”

Bruce wondered what he was going to do when Superman – Kal-El, the blue-eyed, red-eyed demon from his nightmares – hovered up from the dark ground, hands grabbing hold of another one of the sturdy chains that were hanging from the ceiling and wrapped a length of it around Bruce's bared neck. Bruce felt a pang of fear go through him, primal and visceral, but he fought it down before it could ever surface – he wouldn't show weakness, because it would make Clark stop, and it would make Kal-El smell blood. The chain was tightened around his neck and then pulled up, up until Bruce had to keep perfect balance on his toes to avoid choking himself with the chain. 

Kal-El was so close that the heat of his body was seeping through Bruce's body armour, unbearable even before the veins around his eyes turned into molten lava and his eyes into pits of fire. Bruce's brain provided him with the memory of burning flesh, of the dying screams of his companions in his nightmares – but all he smelt was the warmth of Kal's body, even as the heat rays of his eyes welded the chains around Bruce's neck into an inescapable collar. Kal's hand squeezed the iron, and Bruce wondered at first why he held onto it, until he let go and the metal was only warm against Bruce's skin rather than sizzling hot.

The Superman of his nightmares had never shown that much creativity. He'd been a blunt instrument of destruction, eyes that killed aimlessly, hands that ripped Bruce's body to pieces. And when he'd asked Clark to do this … maybe this had been a mistake, maybe he'd misjudged him after all, maybe all he was doing was giving Clark ideas. His heartbeat was up already, and he knew Kal-El could hear it, would have been able to hear it even if his fingers weren't dancing over Bruce's pulse point.

“There, that's better.” His tone was almost soothing, as if he were talking to an injured, scared child. “You'd only hurt yourself if I let you struggle.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Bruce snarled, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears, and he added, more for Clark's benefit than for his own, “Would have spared the rest of the world this fate.”

This time Clark barely faltered, only smiled a smile that was sickening in its benignity. 

“Trust me, the world will be better off for it. You'll come to see it my way, eventually.” He was still floating, effortlessly, just enough that those calm eyes – blue as a gentle summer sky, as if they'd never been red – could look down at him. He touched Bruce's face like he was trying to memorise it, a bruise over Bruce's cheekbone from a recent fight, a small cut over his eyebrow, and then his fingers even ghosted over Bruce's hair, sweaty and dishevelled from the cowl. Bruce pulled back as much as the chains let him, shook his head as if he could chase the memory of that touch.

“Is that so?” It took him a moment to muster his best sneer. “What are you going to do, torture me? Brainwash me?” He paused, and the look he gave Clark was almost cruel. “Seduce me?”

Even in the half-dark of the Cave Bruce could see the heat rise in Clark's cheek, a softer red than when his eyes had come to life. He laughed in a way that sounded embarrassed for second before he tried to turn it into something darker, at the same time as his fingers tightened painfully on Bruce's hair.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe. Or maybe I'll just keep you here, locked up and safe, where you pose no danger to my plans, to have you entertain me whenever I feel like it.”

And that smile, that infuriatingly, terrifyingly gentle smile, turned devious. The Superman of Bruce's nightmares had never smiled. He was a wrathful god, punishing and devouring. Nothing his paranoia had cooked up had prepared him for this – for this smiling, gentle god who took so much pleasure in his power.

“I'll keep you like a pet,” Kal-El said and licked his lips, and the shudder that went through Bruce's body was not only fear. It was something darker, deeper, curdling the blood in his veins, making his stomach cramp up. Kal-El breathed in like he could smell it, the fear, the terror, the helpless lust. And as he breathed out that same air through flaring nostrils, he smiled again, and added the next words with visible relish, “My reluctant pet bat.”

Bruce tried to tear himself away from his touch, the sudden movement sending agony through his chained up arms, but at least he could mask his moan as an expression of pain and a gasp for air when the chain tightened around his neck. For a few heartbeats Kal-El watched him dangle in the chains before his broad hands came to rest on Bruce's sides and steadied him, held him with an iron grip even as Bruce's muscles twitched in vain to get away from him.

“I'm not your pet,” he spat, his anger real now, though he didn't want to examine how much of it was caused by the growing heat in his groin. “I'd rather have you kill me.”

“Kill you?”, and Clark didn't have to fake the chagrined look at that. He kept holding Bruce until he stopped struggling, in a merciless mockery of an embrace. “I wouldn't let you die even if you wanted to. You are my pet if I say so.”

Again Kal's thumb brushed over Bruce's bruised cheekbone, as if he marvelled at the fragility of his human flesh. His touch was light at first, but then, slowly, furtively, he increased the pressure until the pain spread over Bruce's cheek like an oil film out on the ocean. Bruce made no sound. He didn't have to, not when Kal-El could hear the blood in his veins, not when he could smell Bruce's pain like a predator smelt blood.

“Only my decency keeps me from turning all of mankind into my pets, you understand that, don't you?”, and his touch turned gentler again with those words, as if he was still reassuring him that he didn't mean what he said. Bruce knew it, his mind knew it, but all he could feel in his bones was fear, mindless, numbing fear that he'd failed once again, that he'd left the world at the mercy of a monster, that he'd been too weak to protect it. When he closed his eyes for a second, they burnt behind his lids.

“Better me than them,” he said, and those words he meant, would have meant them even if this was real, even if Clark was truly the Kal-El of his nightmares. But this Kal-El kept smiling, the gentleness of it cutting through Bruce's marrow. He was touching him like a pet, Bruce realised. Stroking his cheek like he'd pet a dog's head.

“Yes. I knew you'd get there, I knew you'd figure it out all on your own,” he said, his tone almost cajoling. “My smart little pet bat … so brilliant, not that it will do you any good.”

Bruce felt himself grow achingly hard underneath his Suit, the words setting his nerve endings on fire, and this wasn't what he'd expected, this wasn't what he had asked for. His nightmares turned sexual often enough – Superman took what he wanted, and sometimes he wanted to own and hurt Bruce in every conceivable way before killing him, and every time that had happened Bruce woke up as hard as he was now. But it had never been because of mere words.

Kal-El's fingers were sliding down to Bruce's chest, the touch alone enough to send pure panic through Bruce's mind. The memory of his chest burning up was too vivid and a scream already itched in his throat, but all those fingers did was to rip open the kevlar of his chest plate as easily as if they were ripping a piece of paper.

“Why do you even bother with that pathetic suit?” Kal-El asked. Clark had asked Bruce several times if it was really all right if he destroyed the Suit, until Bruce had eventually lost his patience and agreed to putting on a retired older model he didn't need anymore. But even an older model was still his Suit, his armour, an extension of himself and everything he'd turned himself into. Superman's hands destroyed it effortlessly, not even like a man squashing an ant, more like a man idly swatting aside an annoying fly. He bared Bruce's chest, his shoulders, his arms, left the tattered remains of his underarmour hanging around his hips.

Once again he splayed his hand over Bruce's chest, right above his heart, and the knowledge that Kal-El could feel it beat as if he was actually holding it in his hand made Bruce shudder. His middle finger brushed lightly over old scar tissue – Clark had been fascinated by his scars from the start, since the first time he'd seen Bruce shirtless, watching him patch himself up after a fight, since the first time he'd been allowed to put his hands on Bruce's body.

“Aren't you tired of it?” he asked softly. “Of the pain, the exhaustion? Aren't you tired of fighting?”

Bruce wasn't sure if this was still Kal-El speaking, or Clark himself – Clark who winced more about Bruce's injuries than Bruce himself did, Clark who so often looked like he wanted to take Bruce's burdens from him and who didn't seem to understand that nobody could. Bruce swallowed, felt the unbearable tightness of the chain around his neck, and remained silent. Any answer he could give would anger Kal-El, and he doubted Clark would be particularly happy to hear it either.

“You won't have to anymore.” That benign smile was back on Kal-El's lips, at the same time as his fingers dug into Bruce's chest. He didn't break the skin, the pressure was so exquisitely controlled that Bruce could feel the bruises form in his flesh, as if Clark was carefully testing just how hard he could push before he destroyed him. It hurt more than having his chest torn open in his nightmares. His heart hammered frantically against Kal-El's hand, but he still tried so hard to remain quiet, to keep the moans bottled up.

Kal-El's left hand moved down to his hip, fingers brushing over bare skin almost curiously, as if he was looking for just the right spots to press down. When he found it, he started with just enough pressure to smart a little, and then it became more, unbearably so, like his hand was only a fraction away from crushing Bruce's bones to dust. The mindless violence of Bruce's nightmares had been easier to bear than this, had made it easier to deny that the pain that rippled through his body made his nerves sing. He pressed his lips together so tightly that he tasted copper, but sooner or later the first whimper still escaped his throat, a strangled, choked, pathetic sound.

“I don't like hurting you, you know that?” Kal-El said pensively. It wasn't Clark saying that, for all that he had claimed that more than once, because Clark got hard every time they fought, every time they sparred, every time Bruce groaned and ached under his hands. “But I know you need it, yearn for it. That's why you go out every night, even though your body can barely take the strain anymore. You need the pain.”

There was a red shimmer in his eyes when he smiled at Bruce, the threat only simmering below the surface. Bruce felt a drop of sweat roll over his forehead, down his temple, tickling his sensitised skin until it fell. Kal-El's hand slid down from his chest, leaving five perfect finger imprints in its wake, to Bruce's side where it moved over a broken rib – and he could _see_ it, couldn't he, could see the fracture in the bone, could tell just which place to skip in his torturous, thorough pace – until it settled on his waist to leave another set of bruises on his skin.

“Isn't that so, Bruce? Don't worry, I'll take good care of my pet now that I have you here.” Kal-El sighed softly, a pleased little sigh right against the bruise on Bruce's cheekbone before he mouthed a soft kiss against it. “You just tell me if it's too much. If you want me to stop.”

He could feel the smile more than he saw it. Not in a million nightmares would he have expected Clark to be capable of this much cruelty, pointed, deliberate, as carefully measured as the touch of his bruising fingers. After Bruce's hip it was his arm, the muscles straining under his weight and screaming under unrelenting pressure. He didn't bother with Bruce's neck, not when the chain was already doing good work there – not that Bruce missed the way Clark's eyes glanced at his neck again and again, and he knew him too well to think he was doing anything other than checking that the chains weren't doing any serious damage. 

If this had been real torture, Bruce would have had a dozen meditation techniques at the ready to take himself away from the pain, but he didn't employ any of them. He let himself feel every touch, let his mind linger on the ache even when those merciless hands moved on. Down to his hips again, peeling away more of his armour and underarmour – first at the back, so Bruce's cock was still trapped in too hot fabric while Kal-El focused on his ass, on that too sensitive juncture of his thighs, and this time it wasn't only the blunt touch of fingers, but his fingernails breaking Bruce's skin as effortlessly as scalpels. Another flare of his nostrils, and he must have smelt Bruce's blood, too – and as much as he tried not to show it, Bruce recognised the way his eyes widened a little, the way he wetted his lips like he did when he wanted to kiss Bruce.

Several times Bruce's legs twitched, trying to get away from the punishing touch, but every time he endangered his balance he only put more weight on his abused wrists and his aching throat, and every time he had to force himself to relax, to find his balance again, to stay right where Kal-El had put him for his pleasure.

“You still bruise so easily,” Kal-El said softly, awe in his voice. “All these years, all this pain, all your training, and it still just takes a little touch. I can hear the way your heart jumps just before I push down” – and he did just that on Bruce's thigh – “anticipation and fear, and then it slows down again while you make yourself bear the pain” – his grip was so tight that Bruce could _feel_ his own heartbeat against Kal-El's hand – “and the moment I let you go there's another little jump, I'd call it relief, but it's not really, is it?” – he let go, but his hand stayed where it was, a feather-light caress on burning skin – “because you weren't actually sure you wanted it to stop.”

Bruce gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, but it didn't help, not when he could smell Clark, when he could feel his lips against his cheek, his arms surrounding him, the alien fabric of his suit. The air in the Cave was cold on his skin, but Bruce felt like he was burning up from a fever, like he was drowning in the heat of that inhuman body.

Big, broad fingers picked out threads from what remained of his underarmour, tore them out stitch by stitch until the fabric came apart, and as if he'd lost patience then he tore the remainders down, just far enough to bare Bruce's cock and balls to the cold air. There was no surprise in Kal-El's smile – of course not, he'd smelt him already, even though he'd painstakingly made sure not even to brush against his crotch before.

He stepped back now – no, floated back, still not getting his boots back onto the wet ground of the Cave – to let his eyes roam over Bruce's body. Bruce wondered what the bruises looked like to his heightened vision, if he could see the strain of Bruce's muscles as he forced himself to hold still, to suppress any instinct to fight back and get out of here. It was pointless. It didn't matter, even if he could somehow get out of those welded, unyielding chains. Not when those hands could hold him down as effortlessly as an unruly dog.

The hesitation had gone out of Clark now, as if he finally believed Bruce that he truly wanted this, that he knew what he'd asked for – which, ironically, Bruce hadn't, but he had no intention of complaining now. Kal-El flexed his fingers, a strangely human gesture when his eyes still had that faint red gleam, as if he couldn't quite decide where to touch next, but then he let his knuckles brush over the underside of Bruce's cock. It was nothing, and it tore a groan from Bruce's lungs that he couldn't hold back.

The look on Kal-El's face was almost curious, like he'd never seen anything like this before, delighted, too, though that might have just been Clark and Clark's relief that Bruce was enjoying this every bit as much as he'd assured him before. He only teased now, brushing his fingertips over Bruce's cock, then down to his balls, a maddening contrast to the iron grip he'd maintained on him before. As soon as that thought had crossed Bruce's mind, those fingers tightened their grip on his balls, ever so slowly, like he was daring Bruce to scream, to beg, to tell him to stop. His touch was just turning painful when Kal-El stopped, cocked his head to the side like he was contemplating an amusing riddle.

“You won't beg, will you?” he said. “You'd never tell me to stop, not even if I did far worse things to you than some bruises that will heal. Such a proud little bat.”

Bruce's heart jumped, and he forced a sneer back onto his face, the disdain directed at his own treacherous body and mind as much as at those words. He didn't even see Kal-El's hand move before stinging pain erupted in his cheek, and he only realised a second later that Kal-El had _slapped_ him. Not punched him, no, that he'd reserve for a worthy opponent. He'd slapped him like a disobedient child.

The shock must have been visible on his face because Clark drew back for half a second, made sure to meet Bruce's eyes before he swallowed and ran his fingertips over Bruce's smarting cheek. Bruce pressed back against his hand even though his skin was on fire. For a moment they both held still, but then Clark took a deep breath and went on.

“You'll learn,” he said softly. His hand – the same hand that had slapped Bruce – was back on Bruce's cock now, stroked it slowly, and with every stroke he increased the pressure until the touch was almost unbearable and still made Bruce harder in his hand. He leant in and kissed the reddened skin above Bruce's cheekbone, with as much tenderness as Clark did when he thought Bruce was already half asleep, but now the touch was like needles on Bruce's skin. The tenderness of a volatile, violent god who just happened to feel generous, for now.

He floated around Bruce, the smooth fabric of his cape brushing over Bruce's side, his hand never leaving Bruce's cock. Cool air hit his sensitised flesh even as Kal-El's heat pressed against his back, so close that Bruce could feel for the first time that he was hard in his suit. It made him twitch in his chains – Clark had been so reluctant about this, so hesitant, so worried, and to feel him wanting this as much as Bruce had … 

His left arm wrapped around Bruce, too, warm pressure against the side of his chest while his hand came to rest on Bruce's throat, where it pushed the chain links into his skin. Bruce's breath caught in his throat the next time Kal-El squeezed his cock, and for a few seconds after that his lungs burnt with air he couldn't breathe out. He barely recognised the high, despairing noise that left his throat; it sounded nothing like him, no more than the hungry gasp for air when the grip on his throat loosened enough to let him breathe again.

Kal-El's touch turned soothing then, bending the metal just enough to relax the collar so that he could get his fingers underneath it, his thumb rubbing gently over the abused skin. Bruce was hyper-aware of Clark's stubble against his cheek, then of his lips against his temple. He held him like he'd saved him from drowning, but his right hand was still relentless on Bruce's cock.

“I know you'll never beg for yourself, Bruce.” His voice was filled with gentle, disappointed regret. “Not for mercy, even when your body can't stand any more pain. Nor for relief, even when your body is desperate for pleasure.”

Bruce wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing this for then, if he knew that no torture in the world would make him bow to Kal-El's will. But his throat felt sore and he wasn't going to take the risk of his voice cracking in the middle of a challenge.

“You won't beg for yourself,” Kal-El said again, “but you will beg for others. Better you than the rest of the world, right? That's what you said.”

He nosed at Bruce's hair, breathed him in. Clark had told him more than once that he smelt good, had told him with his face pressed against Bruce's thigh, or with his nose against the crook of Bruce's neck. Bruce wondered if he smelt different now, his muscles tight with an instinctive fear his mind couldn't snuff out.

“You will beg me to do anything I please to you, so I won't do it to anyone else.” By now Kal-El's voice had dropped to a whisper, soft and unthreatening like he wasn't holding the world hostage against Bruce's obedience, against Bruce's pride. “You can be my pet, or someone else will.”

The noise that tore itself from Bruce's chest was as strangled as if his throat was still constricted, and his whole body seemed to cramp up when he came over Kal's hand. It was barely satisfying – more like yanking out a thorn or a bullet from his flesh, like setting right a broken arm or a dislocated shoulder; no pleasure, just agonising relief.

Kal-El gasped in surprise against his ear and then smiled, still that dismissive, delighted smile of a man watching his pet's antics. He maintained a painfully tight grip on Bruce's aching cock, rubbed his thumb over the oversensitive head.

“So much for the Bat's famed self-control,” he teased and nipped at Bruce's earlobe, incongruously playful. “I'll take that as a yes.”

His fingers were tapping an idle rhythm on Bruce's throat before they found new places to press down, and even with his head in a post-coital fog Bruce was aware of how deliberate his touch was, how carefully he avoided cutting both his air supply and the blood flow while still digging deep bruises into the sides of Bruce's neck. They'd show in the morning, without a doubt. Bruce Wayne would have to wear turtlenecks under his suit jackets for at least a week. It was hard to imagine that he'd ever be able to make himself into Bruce Wayne again, hard to imagine a world outside the confines of these chains and of Kal-El's inescapable hands.

“Beg you,” he growled, his voice hoarse with pain and want. “Beg you for what?”

“What do you think?” Kal-El said against his ear and pressed closer to him. His cock was hot against the base of Bruce's spine. He never took things so slow in Bruce's nightmares – it was always a shock, the searing pain of his too big cock inside of Bruce, ripping him open just like his hand ripped open his chest on other nights. But this Kal-El wanted him to know what awaited him. This Kal-El wanted him to ask for it.

Bruce groaned when his cock was finally released, just for Kal-El to smear his come over the bruises on his hip. His palm was like a wall of heat against Bruce's throat, still not pressing down in any truly vulnerable places, just casually maintaining the threat. 

“We've already established how smart you are, my pet bat,” still that condescending, teasing tone, “Don't go and disappoint me now, or I might change my mind about whether you're enough to entertain me.”

“Entertain you with base human desires?” Bruce sneered. “Aren't you supposed to be better than that?” 

Kal-El laughed like silver bells, the brightest, sweetest sound. It made Bruce's spine go rigid. 

“Nobody ever said gods can't enjoy the fruits of their victory.” The pressure on Bruce's throat increased so suddenly he didn't even have time for a last desperate gulp of air, and Kal-El's voice had turned to ice when he added, “Beg.”

Black dots were dancing in front of Bruce's eyes by the time he was allowed to breathe again, he felt dizzy, drugged almost, and for a few seconds his world was reduced to that tender touch on his throat, petting him lightly. Speaking seemed hard, impossible even, his shoulders screamed with the exertion of holding up his weight for so long. 

“Fuck me,” he croaked, his voice breaking. He wanted it more than he wanted to breathe, wanted him so much it should have terrified him, and maybe that was why Clark kept invading his nightmares even though Bruce knew he was trustworthy, safe, reliable. Maybe it was himself that Bruce couldn't trust.

“You call that begging? You can do better than that, I'm sure of it.”

Bruce felt the alien fabric shift against his sweaty skin, slithering aside like snake skin, and then the hot, wet slide of Kal-El's cock against his back. He was painfully big, but Bruce knew he could take him, because Clark always made sure Bruce could take him. He wondered if he'd bother this time.

“Please,” he forced himself to say. He almost choked on the word, but it seemed to ease the pressure on his shoulders and his wrists. “Please fuck me.”

Movement again at his back, and it took him a moment to realise that Kal-El was using Bruce's own come to slick himself up. Bruce closed his eyes, let the darkness wash over him so he could focus on nothing but the sensation of Kal-El's skin.

“How?” Kal-El asked, lips still moving against Bruce's ear. _As hard as you can_ , Bruce wanted to say, as if Superman's worst wouldn't pulverise him. He swallowed, his throat moving against Kal's warm palm.

“However you like.” It should have felt like a defeat, submitting like this, with every muscle in his body aching, but instead he felt almost elated, floating. He turned his head just so, until his cheek brushed against Kal-El's. He heard him breathe, useless breath Superman didn't need to survive, but it came laboured, faster than usual, impatient.

Kal-El moved just as carefully, as cruelly as before, when he'd dug his fingerprints into Bruce's flesh, as he pushed into Bruce with excruciating slowness. He didn't need momentum and blunt force to get what he wanted, he made Bruce's body yield and surrender to him with quiet certainty. A deep, heavy ache radiated through Bruce, the kind of pain that was so intense it barely registered as such and became pure ecstasy instead, the nerves in his body thrumming from it while his heart thundered in his chest. He curled his fingers into the chains that held his hands and realised only seconds later that Kal-El was holding him up, warm arms wrapping around Bruce's body and lifting him up just enough to take the strain off his shoulders, even as they tightened so much they squeezed the air out of Bruce's lungs.

The first thrust was measured, driving the last clear thought out of Bruce's mind as his body shook with the force of it. For all the impatience in his breath, the hunger in the kisses he planted on the back of Bruce's neck, Kal-El was in no hurry now. He never was – he always took his time, ever since he'd realised that Bruce was happy to take him for as long as Clark needed to wear himself out.

Bruce felt weightless, held up by inhumanly strong arms, the ache in his wrists and shoulders quickly subsiding until he barely felt anything but Kal's cock inside him, every thrust sending a shudder through his body. Even his bruises, both the ones that were starting to feel numb already and the ones Kal's hands were adding now, felt inconsequential compared to that.

He lost his sense of time, allowed himself to lose it, eyes closed, listening to nothing but the soft moans and gasps against his ear. Kal-El had stopped talking now, or maybe Clark simply couldn't hold up the charade while he was inside him. It didn't matter, didn't matter the first time he came inside Bruce with a shaky groan, didn't matter when he only held Bruce for a minute before he started moving again, a bit faster this time, like that first orgasm had made it harder for him to hold back. Bruce had lost his sense of time, but Kal fucked him for so long that Bruce felt himself harden again eventually, and this time he didn't need to feel one of those strong hands on his cock; having Clark inside him was enough, nuzzling at his neck just above the loosened chains, teeth grazing his skin every now and then without ever truly biting down. 

When Bruce came the second time that night, it was like a crushing wave rolled over him, overwhelming him until he all but blacked out for a moment. Every bit of pain seemed to have seeped out of his body by then, washed out by pure euphoria. He heard someone whimper and barely realised it was him; heard a soft, happy laugh against his neck that was all Clark, guileless and kind.

He was still dizzy from his own orgasm when Clark pulled out of him without letting him go. Come trickled down his thigh even though he tried to clench down on it, and he was more aware of that light, tickling sensation than of Clark's hands bending the chains open to free Bruce's neck, then his hands. He did notice that Clark set him down on his feet, but not in time to make his legs work, watched himself in slow motion as he slid down along Clark's body to the ground, and only came to properly by the time he was looking at Clark's knees. With a groan he leant his forehead against Clark's thigh, felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder.

Goosebumps were forming on his forearms, the air was icy against his sweat-slick skin, but the fabric of Clark's suit was as warm as flesh against his cheek. Strong fingers started to massage his shoulder, then moved on to the back of his neck. Bruce's fingertips ached more than they had any right to, and when he looked down at them, he saw that his skin had split in a few places from clinging too tightly to the chains. Bit by bit his body started to feel normal again, cold in the Cave's low temperatures, bruises and muscles aching.

“Bruce?” Clark's voice was as warm as his hands, and it _was_ Clark's, without that aloofness that had made Bruce tremble before. When Bruce didn't reply, Clark crouched down next to him and cupped his chin until Bruce met his eyes. There was concern in them, but a quiet, calm kind of concern – just Clark being Clark, none of that overblown panic like the first time they'd fucked and Clark had ended up thinking he'd seriously hurt Bruce, just because Bruce had needed a moment to recover.

“I'm fine,” he still said. He rubbed his wrists, but he knew his body well enough to be certain that they were merely sore – he wondered if Clark had kept an eye on them, too, if he'd looked _into_ them to check. He wasn't sure if that idea bothered him more or less than it should.

Clark grinned at him.

“I know that,” he said lightly. “I'm more worried if I'm going to be fine. I thought you might rip my head off for the …”

“For what?”

“Pet bat,” Clark mumbled, sounding almost sheepish now. Even now heat pooled in Bruce's stomach. He made himself pull away, pointedly did not lean on Clark when he struggled to his feet. His Suit was, unsurprisingly, ruined beyond repair. Before he could decide whether he should still try to cover himself with it or not, Clark had already unfastened his cape and thrown it over Bruce's shoulders, and even though Bruce wanted to protest, the fabric felt surprisingly pleasant against his burning skin. Cool somehow, but still isolating him from the cold of the Cave.

“I would have ripped your head off if you'd stopped at any point,” Bruce said, giving Clark a pointed glare so he wouldn't get any ideas just because Bruce had accepted the cape. He pulled it a bit tighter around himself, then turned around and took off towards the mezzanine.

“Oh, I got that from the death glares you were shooting me half the time,” Clark called after him, but at least he had the good sense not to follow him, even though Bruce could easily imagine the look on his face: undecided, a bit irritated, the way he always looked when Bruce's post-coital behaviour didn't fit Clark's Kansas sensibilities. He felt Clark's eyes following him until the bathroom door closed behind him, and even then he wondered if Clark was still watching. At times Clark seemed very concerned with respecting Bruce's privacy, at others he seemed to like watching him far more than Bruce cared to think about.

He pushed the thought out of his mind. After what they'd just done, it hardly made a difference if Clark watched him shower. He brushed his fingers over the oddly cool fabric of the cape before he let it pool to the floor and peeled out of the tattered remains of the old Suit. His gaze caught on the mirror above the sink when he turned around, and the dark bruises on his neck looked worse than he would have expected, the ones from Clark's hands even more so than the ones from the chains. 

He'd been covered in bruises after their fight, too – and almost all of them had been from Superman, not from the henchmen he'd fought that same day to save Mrs Kent, even if they had left a knife in his shoulder, not from the monstrosity Lex Luthor had sicked on them either. And after the man he'd almost murdered had been put into the frozen ground in Kansas, Bruce had cherished those bruises, had borne them as his punishment, as a reminder of his own mistakes, his arrogance, his misguidedness. When they'd faded, he'd been tempted to punch them right back into his skin. He didn't like to ponder what these new bruises meant now, what they would remind him of in days to come.

Once in the shower he turned the water so hot it beat the tension out of his shoulders, even though his bruised skin could have done with something cooler. He took his time cleaning up – dallying, maybe, even though he knew that Clark would wait no matter how long Bruce took – but it helped him clear his head, helped him work through of the pain- and lust-addled fog in his mind. He was used to staying in control at all times, even when it came to sex – not even necessarily of what he did with any given partner, but of his own reactions to it. Now he wasn't even sure what time it was, and his inner clock was usually completely reliable.

He spent exactly nineteen minutes in the bathroom, and when he stepped out again, in sweatpants and a warm turtleneck because Alfred could always be relied on to keep some clean clothes in the Cave's bathroom, Clark was sitting on Bruce's desk like he hadn't quite dared to take his chair. Without the cape to hide at least some of his features, the blue suit seemed indecently tight, hugging his shoulders, his arms, the hunched line of his back.

He jumped up from the desk when Bruce came out, looked at him hesitantly. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, but his eyes were already roaming over Bruce's body – scrutinising him, and Bruce didn't have to guess what he was doing. Clark did have the annoying tendency not to believe Bruce when he said he was fine. 

“As you can tell,” Bruce replied sharply. It wasn't as if Clark genuinely understood pain, how it always swam at the surface of Bruce's consciousness, a constant companion he had learnt to live with over the years. No use explaining that to a man who could count on one hand the times in his life he'd even felt discomfort, and who only needed to spend some time in the sun to get rid of it.

Clark looked like he wanted to argue – possibly the most familiar look on his face, as far as Bruce was concerned – but then he nodded. Maybe even Superman was learning to pick his battles.

“Was it … was it what you had in mind?” This time he sounded even more hesitating than before. Bruce hadn't told him that many details about his nightmares when he'd suggested they try this out – just enough for Clark to get the general gist, and unfortunately enough for Clark to worry that he might only make it worse if he actually played the nightmarish version of himself that haunted Bruce's dreams.

“Close enough,” Bruce said.

“Do you think it'll help? With the nightmares?” The concern in Clark's voice made Bruce want to grind his teeth. The only reason he'd mentioned his damned dreams at all was because Clark wouldn't have agreed to this otherwise. Re-enacting his nightmares to rid himself of them had apparently sounded like a better reason to Clark than “because you might enjoy it, too”.

“We'll see about that,” Bruce said. He didn't mention to Clark that there was a good chance he'd given himself a whole new kind of nightmares, of a gentle, smiling, merciless god who wasn't content with killing alone. It was hard to imagine that now, looking at the downright embarrassed expression on Clark's face. A curl of his black hair had fallen onto his forehead, an odd softness in Superman's sleek look.

“Okay,” Clark said, and then, “So you're not mad at me?”

“Don't get used to it,” Bruce said, but he couldn't quite keep the smile from tugging at his lips. He offered Clark the flowing red cape, held it between them like an offer of peace and like a shield. Clark took it, covering Bruce's hands with his own with only a layer of fabric between them.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said, and before Bruce could pull his hands away, Clark had floated up a few inches, just enough to get the advantage of height when he kissed Bruce, deep and hungry, like he'd been waiting to do just this for hours. It was dizzying, or maybe just driving the air from Bruce's lungs. He grabbed Clark's forearm as if to push him away, then decided to indulge him for a moment, or maybe even a few moments. Clark's teeth nipped at his bottom lip, reopening a small wound Bruce's own teeth had left there earlier that night, and kissed him until he barely felt the sting anymore.

Clark stepped away with the cape in his hands, tried to hide his smile by throwing it over his shoulders and fastening it.

“Don't do that,” Bruce said quietly, meaning the kiss. It sounded unduly sullen even to his own ears.

“You think I care what you want me to do?” Clark grinned at him, daring in his eyes. He licked his lips like he was savouring the kiss as much as his next words. “My pet bat.”

“You're going to pay for that, I hope you know that,” Bruce said. His mind already provided him with helpful suggestions, most of which included Clark chained up in a soft green glow, and a few lessons in what exactly pain felt like, but he could still feel himself smile.

“Oh, I'm counting on it.” Clark didn't ask to stay. He'd tried that, once or twice, and then looked offended, even hurt, when Bruce had told him to leave. “Good night, Bruce.”

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned and flew down through the same tunnel Bruce used when he left in the Car. Bruce hit the button that opened the exit, closed it again when the motion detectors had told him Clark was gone.

Bruce briefly glanced at the computer screens – it was almost six in the morning. The fog would be rising over the lake now, muted colours and fading greys, soothing after the bright blue of Superman's eyes and of his suit. Bruce walked up the steps to the lake house with a deep ache in his whole body, but his mind was clear, and he was certain that this night at least would stay free of nightmares.


End file.
